


hit me hard enough to wake me

by trustingno1



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: The Abominable Bride, Fix-It, M/M, Mind Palace, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-17
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-18 04:11:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9367376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trustingno1/pseuds/trustingno1
Summary: "Mycroft has her locked away," Sherlock says, and it's notentirelybeyond the realm of possibility, John will allow, but, "She's on an island. At Sherrinford."John glances over at Mycroft. "Sherlock, you're," he pauses, searches for the proper medical term, "off your bloody face right now."





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fast and furious response to Season 4; rough as guts and some parts are clearly tongue-in-cheek (not Johnlock, though; never Johnlock). ♥
> 
> In essence: Sherlock's tripping hard after the end of HLV/TAB. Everything was in his dreams or mind palace. The end.

"Eurus," Sherlock murmurs, brow furrowing, eyes still closed, and John jolts upright in his chair.

"Gyros?" John asks, "Are you hungry?" Turning to Mycroft, standing on the other side of Sherlock's hospital bed, "Is he hungry?"

Mycroft's smile is thin, strained. "I think not," he finally says, with remarkable restraint.

"Eurus," Sherlock says again, agitated.

John leans in. "Sherlock," he says, quietly, then - more firmly, " _Sherlock_. Can you hear me?"

Sherlock makes an unhappy noise from the back of his throat (confused and desperate and _scared_ ).

"Greek God of the East Wind," Mycroft says, absently, and - off John's look, "Eurus."

"Oh," John replies, "Sure. Who doesn't have Greek mythology on the brain when they're coming down?"

Mycroft's lips twist, and Sherlock jerks awake.

"Eurus," he says, "Mycroft, where is she?"

Concern tempers Mycroft's expression slightly, as he glances across the bed at John.

"Where is," Mycroft prompts.

"Eurus," Sherlock says again, struggling to sit up.

"Easy," John says, reaching out; one hand reaching for the bed console, the other landing briefly on Sherlock's shoulder (warm, even through the hospital gown, and he's lived with, known, loved him for _years_ , but touched him so infrequently-)

"Where is," Sherlock says, dangerous and low, "our _sister_ , Mycroft?"

"Jesus," John says, before he can help himself, "There's three of you?"

Mycroft's gaze is brief, withering, and he turns his gaze back to Sherlock as he says, " _No_."

" _Yes_ ," Sherlock says, "We had - _have_ \- a younger sister."

"Had?" John asks, and there's a sense of unease growing-

"Mycroft has her locked away," Sherlock says, and it's not _entirely_ beyond the realm of possibility, John will allow, but, "She's on an island. At Sherrinford."

John glances over at Mycroft. "Sherlock, you're," he pauses, searches for the proper medical term, "off your bloody face right now."

"I know what I saw, John," Sherlock replies.

"Saw?" Mycroft asks, mildly.

"Yes. I _met_ her, Mycroft." Sherlock half-turns to John, "Not a terribly _nice_ person. Directly or indirectly responsible for the murder of-"

" _Murder_?" John starts.

Mycroft crosses one foot over the other, toe digging into the floor. "Met her?" he prompts, ignoring them with practiced ease.

"She pretended to be John's therapist. She pretended to be a client. She came to _Baker Street_ ," Sherlock says, vicious and triumphant, and John blinks.

"Ella?" he asks, perplexed, and Sherlock waves a hand at him, dismissively.

"No. The other one." (What other one?)

"Sherlock-"

"When?" Mycroft asks, smile sharp, "Before or after you were dreaming about Emelia Ricoletti?" A beat. "What's the date today, Sherlock?"

"Oh, Christ," John swears, under his breath, "He'll never get that." He tugs his chair forward, touches Sherlock's arm (can't _stop_ touching him) to get his attention. "Mycroft was being a rubbish big brother and sending you on an all-expenses paid trip to Serbia," he reminds Sherlock, gentle, calm, "and then the plane turned around." Sherlock's scanning his face (searching for what, he isn't sure, but he lets him). "There was a message from Moriarty-" (a recoil; small, instinctive, unusual for him), "and you were apparently trying to set some sort of _record_ -" bit angry; he sucks in a steadying breath through his nose, "and you had a bad reaction to whatever you took," he amends.

Sherlock frowns.

"The clown," he says, "and the girl on the plane."

John glances at Mycroft again.

"What girl, Sherlock?" Mycroft asks.

"Our sister," Sherlock says, "Eurus. Stop _lying to me_ , Mycroft-"

" _Observe_ ," Mycroft barks, "Gather what wits you possibly _can_ in this state," his lip curls, "and _observe_ me." He leans his weight on the umbrella in his hand, lifts his chin. "Am I lying to you?"

"You've been lying to me my entire life," Sherlock snaps.

"No," Mycroft says. " _Observe me_ , Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes dart over Mycroft's face, down the length of his body and back.

"Sherrinford," Sherlock says.

"Yes," Mycroft replies.

"When?" Sherlock asks, flatly.

"You tell me," Mycroft says.

"Six," Sherlock says, tone eerily, _awfully_ , emotionless.

"Yes," Mycroft says again.

A beat.

"Well, I'm lost," John says, scratching the back of his neck.

"Sherrinford is a real place," Mycroft says, without taking his eyes off his brother, who makes no move to interrupt him, "Neither institution nor asylum; it is a - facility. In which children can be ... assessed."

"Oh," John says, then, " _Oh._ Jesus Christ."

Sherlock glances at him out of the corner of his eye, doesn't turn away from Mycroft.

"Sherlock was - assessed."

"When he was _six_?" John interrupts, incredulously, "Mycroft, _Jesus_ , he was a _kid_."

Unmoved; "That was, essentially, the diagnosis." He glances over at John, now. "Make no mistake, John. The facility was not a guarded fortress on a deserted island." His gaze travels back to Sherlock. "But that is, perhaps, how it might be _remembered_."

"You think," Sherlock says, dully, "that-"

"Yes," Mycroft says.

Sherlock lies back in his bed, stunned.

"Do you - need me for this?" John half-kids.

"Always," Sherlock breathes, eyes slipping shut for a moment, before he shakes his head, just once, and refocuses on Mycroft. "You think that Eurus, that Sherrinford, is what I could've-"

"Is what you _think_ you could've been," Mycroft corrects, with a disappointed head tilt.

Sherlock sucks his lips into his mouth as he thinks.

"Victor Trevor," he finally says, eyes darting between John and Mycroft (and if John didn't know better, he'd call it self-consciously).

"Is alive and well," Mycroft replies, answers a question John didn't realise Sherlock was even _asking_.

"I ... dreamt?" Sherlock tries out the word, "That Eurus, that she-" his voice catches and John stares at him.

Mycroft considers him for a moment. "Fascinating," he says, slowly.

There's a beat. "Sorry, what's fascinating?" John asks.

Mycroft spares him a quick glance, but directs his answer to Sherlock, "Eurus is the sociopathic tendencies you fear you've merely suppressed. You imagine her - or those very tendencies - responsible for the demise of your relationship with Victor Trevor."

There's a lot to take in, there, but - "Relationship?" John asks, and Sherlock, Sherlock rolls his _bloody_ eyes.

"We were _friends_ ," he says, haltingly, "Of sorts."

"You know, of course," Mycroft says, pausing to inspect the tip of his umbrella, "that not returning ... affectionate overtures," he grimaces, "is not the same as being _unable_ to return them."

"Of course I know that," Sherlock snaps, but, _oh_ , how John aches for him. He reaches out (can't _not),_ rests his fingertips on Sherlock's forearm, and Sherlock swallows.

"I rather think you've proved yourself quite capable of-"

"Yes," Sherlock barks, "Thank you, nobody asked."

Mycroft's gaze flickers over to John, so quickly, and Sherlock looks _apoplectic_.

"Boys," John interrupts, warningly, "Not now, hmm?"

And it's something in his tone, maybe; Sherlock jerks and gasps, "Mary!" eyes wild, searching John's. "She's - not ... dead?"

"Regrettably," Mycroft says, under his breath.

"You've been dreaming about Mary?" John says, lightly (but remembers the last time Sherlock was seeing her every time he closed his eyes).

"Not really my area," Sherlock murmurs, and John smiles at him, so desperately, inescapably _fond_ , before Sherlock's brow furrows, "And - Rosie?"

John blinks. "Who's Rosie?"

Sherlock looks - looks _devastated_. "Your daughter," he says. "I - we were raising her. At Baker Street."

John's smile is automatic, helpless. "Yeah?" he murmurs (won't tell Sherlock just yet; he's been an idiot about a few things in his life, but he _is_ a doctor.

There is no Rosie Watson; of this, he's certain).

"And Mary was sending us - messages. Videos," Sherlock says, eyes narrowing. "Like Mori-" he cuts himself off, but the word hangs between them all.

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps not everything you imagined was as outlandish as a _sister_ -"

"Mycroft!" John barks.

"Apologies," Mycroft says, insincerely, "Were we to dance around the topic for a little longer?"

"It has been. A _very_ long few days," John says, voice low and tight, "And if this absolutely can't wait until your brother isn't high as a kite-" Sherlock's mouth opens, affronted, "then can you at least give us _five minutes_?" he glances at the door, meaningfully.

Mycroft doesn't move for a long moment. "Five minutes," he finally says, moving towards the door, and John jerks his head, just once, in thanks.

John waits until he closes the door behind him.

"So," he says, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock. "Mary. Moriarty." His left hand clenches, where it lies on his thigh, for a beat. He forces it to relax, wiggles his fingers a little.

"John," Sherlock says, apology written in every line of him (sorry for not _seeing_ , sorry for being the one to tell him, all those months ago, that his wife had leveled a gun at him and-).

"No." Not tonight. Soldiers into battle. "Whatever happens," John says, haltingly, because he's in the dark about the next phase, and he suspects that's all Sherlock's doing, "it has been - a privilege and an honour. To have been your friend."

(He has to say it, say it _now_ , because it's not a _game_ anymore).

Sherlock's eyes close, as if he's been wounded. "John," he says, opening them, with effort. "John, you're so much more than that." His gaze travels over John's face, as if he's memorising this moment; then, softly, "You always have been."

John's laugh sounds like a sob. He leans forward in his chair, and Sherlock rolls towards him, gingerly, in the bed. He reaches out and catches Sherlock around the back of his neck, thumb rubbing small circles through his hair. "I don't want to do this while you're in a hospital bed," he admits, closing his eyes.

Sherlock's breath catches. "That implies that - that there's a 'this' to 'do'?" he asks, hesitantly, and John's not even sure that was _English_.

He opens his eyes, laugh this time high and _breathless_ , and Sherlock's smile is deepening the lines at the corners of his eyes. John half-rises from the chair, bracing his free hand on the bed, and murmurs, into Sherlock's ear,

"Obviously."

 

 

 


End file.
